


Rebirth

by DetectiveRiley (RavenWhitecastle)



Series: The Sinner and the Saint [48]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cheese, Cheesy, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24814060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenWhitecastle/pseuds/DetectiveRiley
Summary: The war is over. Harold and John can go back to their lives. But something is holding John back. Harold feels it, too, and has something else in mind.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Series: The Sinner and the Saint [48]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/940422
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50





	Rebirth

_ December 10th, 2015 _

The chalk squeaked softly against the chalkboard as Professor Whistler wrote out an equation- (L+x)i=1. “L plus x, multiplied by i, equals one,” he narrated out loud. He turned to face his class when he was finished. “Would anyone like to take a stab at what this means?”

He was greeted with silence. A few students were frantically copying the equation down into their notebooks. Smiling, he explained, “L, to represent the amount of life, plus x, or a symbol of one human person, times i as in infinite possibilities, equals one, or the number of lives a single person can live.” 

There were a few chuckles. A couple of students rolled their eyes. Harold paused before he continued. “Due to extenuating circumstances, I will not be returning next semester. This class will be taught by another professor when you return from your winter holiday. But I wanted to leave you with this.” He limped over to his podium so he could lean on it as he spoke. 

“There are approximately eight and a half million people in New York City. Nearly one hundred and fifteen thousand will die in the next year, and nearly one hundred and  _ thirty _ thousand babies will be born in the same amount of time. But in the words of Albert Einstein, ‘Not everything that counts can be counted. Not everything that can be counted counts.’ Which is to say, it does not matter if you are one of the one in seven that will drop out of college, or one of the one in five that will have a child before the age of twenty-five. Your life cannot be quantified by the statistics you may become. Quite simply, your life cannot be quantified. It can only be measured by what you choose to do with it, and who you choose to go through it with.”

Standing in the door to the lecture hall at the top of the stairs, John had appeared, holding a cup in each hand. He smiled fondly as Harold taught, watching as the students listened with rapt attention. 

Harold caught a glimpse of John grinning at him. Hiding his own grin, he pressed on towards the end of his speech. “Of course, your grades are quantifiable, as much as I would like to end this by saying they aren’t.” A few students laughed. Somewhere in the back, someone jokingly uttered a quite “uh-oh.”

Harold straightened. “I ask but one thing of you all.” His gaze swept through the classroom. “Do the best you can, with the life you’ve got. After all,” he said, gesturing to the board behind him, “you’ve only got one.”

There was a pause, followed by a brief round of applause. Glancing at his watch, Harold waved a hand to dismiss his class. The room filled with the sound of papers rustling and backpacks being zipped up. John made his way down to the front, dodging the tidal wave of students to deliver Harold his tea. 

“Detective Riley,” Harold greeted teasingly, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You can drop the act, Harold,” John replied, leaning in to give Harold a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s been weeks with no activity. We’re not being watched anymore.”

Taking his tea, Harold squinted. “Not by samaritan, at any rate.” His eyes flicked to the security camera in the corner of the room.

John sighed. “Always so paranoid, professor.” He held out an arm to help Harold up the stairs. Harold accepted it gratefully.

Returning to business as usual was harder than any of them had anticipated. They’d spent so much time running from Samaritan and fighting its agents that when the war was finally over, they weren’t entirely sure what to do. The next logical step was to abandon their covers, and return to who they had been before.

“How was your last day at the precinct?” Harold asked as they strolled across the quad.

“Nothing special, since they’re under the impression that I’m being transferred. Unlike you. I didn’t get any applause, or even a cake.”

“Poor thing.” Harold feigned a pout. “Would it make you feel better if I made you one when we got home?”

Harold didn’t miss the nearly imperceptible flinch of John’s shoulders at the word “home,” but John replied as if nothing had happened. “Only if it’s cheesecake.”

Harold smiled, but remained silent. Something was off. He just couldn’t put his finger on what.

When they crossed the threshold of their house, John’s hand lingered on the door frame. There was a framed photo in the foyer showing John and Harold together at a restaurant. They had a few things scattered around their house to make it a believable home, and if John was being honest with himself, he’d bought the lie. He’d enjoyed coming back after a job or a day at the precinct and curling up with Harold on the couch. Sometimes, he had prepared a meal for the both of them in the cozy kitchen. On the nights when they had no time for anything else, they’d ordered takeout and ate over their work. But they’d shared many meals together in their house, as well as many other things. Memories. A life.

John swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. He would have to see about picking up some cleaning supplies- his apartment was undoubtedly covered in dust.

“John?” Harold’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Harold was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. “Is everything all right?”

John nodded. “Fine. Just wondering where I should start with packing.”

Harold tilted his head. “Why would you need to pack?”

Shrugging, John answered, “Well, now that we’re not in hiding anymore, I just assumed we’d go back to working like we used to.”

“I thought you didn’t want to.”

There was a weary note in John’s voice as he parroted Harold’s words. “The numbers never stop coming. That was one of the first things you told me, Harold.”

Harold bowed his head slightly. “Yes, I remember.” He kept talking as he closed the gap between them. “But now that we’ve stopped Samaritan… well, I was thinking, maybe… maybe we could retire.”

John could barely find his voice. “Retire?” he breathed. 

“The influx of numbers is only going to decrease,” Harold elaborated, “And while it had its drawbacks, the old system worked. One operative doing research and one in the field. It was risky, but I think Miss Shaw and Miss Groves revel in a little danger.”

John’s lips quirked. “What are you suggesting?”

“Exactly what I said. We could retire.” He stepped closer to John, taking John’s hand in his own. “Let them carry on out there,” Harold murmured, gesturing his head towards the door, towards the outside world. Harold reached up to cup John’s face. “Stay here, with me, where I can keep you safe.”

Taking a shaky breath, John looked around their home. The pictures, the books, the couch where they’d fall asleep propped up against each other. The counter where they’d shared a drink or two late at night when neither of them could sleep. “You really want to stay here?” he whispered.

Harold shrugged his good shoulder. “Maybe not forever, but I’ve grown rather fond of this place. I think I’d like to enjoy it for a while longer. At least until we find something a little more appropriate for-”

Harold faltered, breaking John out of his trance. “What?”

“Um. Ha. Sorry, nothing.”

“Appropriate for what?” John prompted. 

Blushing, Harold looked away. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for this moment, but… well.” He straightened. “Appropriate for a man and his… his husband.”

It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did, John’s breath hitched. “Husband?”

Harold nodded. “Yes. I… I would like it very much if… if you would marry me?” He waved at his bum leg. “Forgive me, I’m not much for grand gestures, but I’d get down on one knee if I could…”

Beaming, John said, “Allow me.” As he gazed at Harold lovingly, John knelt down on one knee, still grasping Harold’s hand. “There. Please… go on.”

“Oh. Oh yes. Right.” Harold’s eyes were glistening as he took a breath to compose himself. “John. You were the best partner I could have asked for when I set out in this task. And since I-” he paused to laugh lightly, “since I bailed you out of prison, you have become a partner, a protector, a lover, and a friend. But in all the time I’ve known you, it still surprised me just how much- how much you mean to me.” His voice thick with emotion, he started- “John, will you m-”

He was cut off by John’s lips on his, in a tearful, impassioned kiss. When they finally broke apart, they were both smiling and breathless.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Harold whispered.

“You already asked,” John replied, “I just wanted to hear what you  _ did _ have in mind.”

Chuckling, Harold shook his head fondly. “Then will you at least grant me the formality of an answer?”

John pressed his forehead to Harold’s. “Yes, Harold. The answer has always been yes.”

_ fin _

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know it's cheesy. Yes, I know it's fluffy. Yes, I know that the statistics and math are all wonky and wrong (although some of the numbers aren't entirely made up). I just want them to be happy, okay??  
> In all honesty, this was fun to write, and I wouldn't change a single thing. Thanks for reading!


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